


Suited and Booted

by KindListener



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 01:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19162687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindListener/pseuds/KindListener
Summary: Gabriel gets a compliment for his new suit.





	Suited and Booted

“Nice suit.” Aziraphale meant his compliment, not usually a common occurrence when it came to Gabriel.  
“Thank you. I like the clothes.” He admits, feeling the soft cashmere of his turtleneck sweater. “Very much my style.” The grey trenchcoat and the light grey scarf. He was very grey. There was a comment that Aziraphale could've made; the fact that most demons he knew dressed in black and that most angels he knew dressed in white that Gabriel — fashion-wise, anyway — seemed to be halfway between both yet it seemed like a bad decision. It fit him well. The coat hung around his knee, dipping in at the curve of his hips and growing wider at the broadness of his shoulders. "Aziraphale. Aziraphale?"  
“Oh! Y-Yes?” The answer was a mere sqeak.  
“I was wondering if we could go back to your place. We have...sensitive subjects to discuss.”

At the moment, Aziraphale is feeling sensitive, talking about the state of the Antichrist with Gabriel.  
“So, he's doing alright, then?”  
“Oh, yes. Quite the...holy antichrist, I think you'll find.” The blonde smiles, proud of his handiwork, thinking about Crowley and his role in the whole scheme.  
“Well done, Aziraphale. But you won't take it too hard when you, inevitably, fail, right?” Gabriel asks, his violet eyes glinting in the low light of the bookshop's backroom. Aziraphale's smile falters.  
“But I won't. That's the whole point. We are supposed to triumph, yes?” He tries but Gabriel shakes his head.  
“Oh, Aziraphale. To prove that we're right, of course the world has to end. There has to be a war to win a war.” He cocks his head, slightly. “There's still six years or so to get all your affairs together...” Then, Aziraphale gets an idea. An awful idea. Aziraphale gets a wonderful, awful idea.

He stands from his place on the sofa, studying the Adonis dressed in grey, sat, rather primly, on his chaise lounge. Placing his cup of tea on the mantlepiece, Aziraphale looks into the fire and smiles, warmly. The cold, Winter night could use some excitement, especially with Crowley following some bratty popstar and making his life a living Hell (in his opinion, he deserved it for making the demon suffer through hours after hours of awful pop music, that time when the Bentley's radio broke.)  
“You're very celestial, aren't you, Gabriel?” He murmurs, not turning. The archangel grins and chuckles.  
“Of course, I am, Aziraphale. I'm the archangel Gabriel. You can't really surpass me when it comes to that. I mean, unless you were Metatron or, indeed, God.” He laughs.  
“Tell me; did we have a hand in how they reproduce?” The blonde asks and Gabriel's face turns confused.  
“Umm... Not that I can recall but we might have. I think that was, mainly, that demon, Crowley's, doing. All that grinding and moaning. Of course, we came up with the overall concept of it, he, simply, expanded upon our original idea.” His violet eyes go wide with confusion and some kind of cloaked caution.

Aziraphale turns away from the fire and faces Gabriel, his sea-green eyes hooded and, almost, nefarious.  
“So you know of it's temptations?”  
“Between a man and a woman, yes.” Gabriel sighs, not able to look his fellow angel in the eye as his turtleneck begins to make him sweat a little. “Between angels or demons? No. Two, male angels? Heavens, no.” The soft, pink lips of the lesser angel curl into a small smirk, one not completely aware of what is transpiring but one certain of the pride that the archangel's reaction is sending.  
“Who said anything about that, Gabriel?” Comes the sing-song reply as Aziraphale leans down, catching Gabriel off-guard with a chaste kiss to his lips. Suddenly, his turtleneck is strangling him and his pants are cutting him off at the groin. Aziraphale's lips are so soft and warm and Gabriel can't draw himself away.

Native. Aziraphale has gone native. For sure. He doesn't want this. Not one bit. Aziraphale and his demon boyfriend. Those sea-green eyes, soft, pink lips, grabbable hips and slappable ass. With Crowley, the slit-eyed fool, long, slender legs, the pinched waist, slim chest and sharp jawline. Pale, tender flesh meeting tanned and firey. Intertwining. Sweating. Moaning. No. Gabriel manages to tear himself away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. But there's a taste under his tongue; earthy but sweet and...addicting.  
“What is...?”

Demons, much like the inccubi and succubi of lore, achieve some of their temptation due to the taste, texture and — indeed — addictiveness of their...bodily substances. Aziraphale, this kind, unsuspecting book keeper, had been turned rabid, feral, after a single night with Crowley, a mistake that was made on both of their parts. It is a carnal thirst. A thirst that reflects in the embers of the fireplace as Gabriel tries to avoid meeting gazes with the blonde. The addiction had awakened a kind of heat within the lesser angel, when he didn’t get his fill.

“This suit, Gabriel...” He purrs, eyes now the colour of the deep, deep sea, the depths of which could be swimming with all kinds of danger. Aziraphale perches himself atop Gabriel’s thighs, fingers fidgeting with the archangel’s lapels, kneading the soft — yet crisp — material between his fingertips. “It’s so...you. Crisp, sharp, hot.” The last word sounds alien on the lesser angel’s lips as he whispers it against the archangel’s ear. Nevertheless, Aziraphale feels a twitch beneath him and allows a pleased smile to cross his lips. Gabriel swallows a lump in his throat, his lavender eyes fading to a dull violet as he feels all the breath leave him.  
“Aziraphale...” He breathes, the pressure in his groin growing as he feels the blonde’s fingers dive under the collar of his turtleneck and against his bare flesh. His skin is soft against Gabriel’s own and he feels the need to wet his lips. Aziraphale scratches at the swell of his adam’s apple, hearing his breath shudder in response. Nails all down his chest, the expensive material of his sweater gathering at the points of contact.  
“The first time Crowley ever had me, he said; ‘I’m going to drag you through Hell and leave you there to burn in the flames’.” Aziraphale whispers, hands cool and soft against Gabriel’s clammy throat.

The luxurious material of Gabriel’s scarf is twisted around Aziraphale’s eyes. Other than that, he’s left naked to the archangel’s gaze. He’s already writhing, panting, sweating on the vintage chaise.  
“Please, Gabriel, touch me...” He sighs, dreamily, his voice dripping with need. With large, shaky hands, the archangel reaches out, his palm pressing against the lesser angel’s sternum. Even the skin-to-skin contact makes Aziraphale moan in ecstasy. With newfound vigour, Gabriel’s hands roam his chest, brushing over the blushing buds of his nipples. He likes that so he focuses more on them, pinching them with his fingers and running his nails over them. Before long, they’re left red and abused and Aziraphale is hard and leaking, his cheeks stained a rosy pink. With every sensation heightened by his blindfold, the blonde hitches his hips upward, his hips caught by Gabriel’s — now, steady — hands. “Your mouth, Gabriel. Please.” He breathes and those violet eyes widen, again.

Hot, hot breath ghosts across Aziraphale’s hipbones, his thighs shuddering in approval. Inexperienced lips touch the base of the blonde’s length, making him nearly spend at the thought of Gabriel’s tongue on him. Gabriel, becoming more and more confident in his role, runs his lips against the underside of his length, the tip releasing another, generous spurt of pre-come.  
“Ga-Ga-Gabriel... Mmff... I-I-I—” Gingerly, the archangel flicks at the crown with the tip of his tongue and the lesser angel gasps at the contact. Gabriel tastes the sweetness in his mouth, smacking his lips and, generally, looking quite surprised. He dips down for more, curling his lips around the head and pressing his tongue to the flesh. At that, Aziraphale spends, his fingers clamping a, painful, grip into Gabriel’s short hair. “Gosh... Yessss... W-Wait, Gabriel, I’m going—” With barely any warning, Aziraphale spends himself and so does Gabriel, untouched and needing. He shudders as the blonde fills his mouth with his come, the taste and arousal overwhelming him as he pulls himself away, his body aching from the hair-pulling, the shuddering and the orgasm.

“So, can you do that, like, once a century or something?” Gabriel pulls his sweater back on, buttoning up his chinos.  
“No. In fact, Crowley and I do it rather regularly. Nearly every other night.” Gabriel looks flabbergasted.  
“Jeez. Next time you’re able, invite me back, yes?” He looks almost embarrassed as he turns from Aziraphale and walks out through the bookshop door.

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright © 2019 by Charlie E. Drake  
> All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.


End file.
